My student Lotte reports that she likes Lovecraft not for his horrible monsters, but for his creeping fear of the unknown. She brings us this suspenseful horror snippet:
I know you can’t even hear me.
It’s been a very, very long time since our last visitor. Years, maybe. Or decades. We can’t really tell anymore. You can only count moths for so long before you know them all by name. When you can’t taste, can’t feel, reduced to less than substance, it’s unimaginably boring.
They say a tree falling in the forest doesn’t make any sound. So it is the same with all of us. We are the interlopers, the muses, those who carried the weight of our feeble existences on impossibly small shoulders. Until you came along. A voice. A being to believe every single thing we say, indistinguishable from their own thoughts.
Most of them don’t listen. But we see you as different. Someone who might think of us as something more.
Bring the thought of us home. Tell everyone you meet about the great gods you have discovered, beasts enshrined in a throne of gold. Whisper our names before your kind. Soon you’ll make us a part of everything you ever think about. You can have everything you ever wanted. All it takes is your soul.